


Exenteration

by kyrilu



Category: Utopia (TV 2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Guro, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28634874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: Bejan had once asked in the Utopia Experiments chatroom:What would you do if you could make a deal with the devil like the scientist?Wilson reckons with the legacy and the future of Mr. Rabbit. Lee's just along for the ride.
Relationships: Lee/Wilson Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. enucleation

**Author's Note:**

> The plot in this fic is such a mess, but I had fun writing this. Content warning for characters being disgustingly horny about violence, because Lee/Wilson is just one of those ships. 
> 
> The first chapter is the main story. The second chapter is a brief companion piece from Lee’s POV and it’s mostly just porn.

“Is there a Mrs. Rabbit?” Lee asks.

For not the first time, Wilson thinks of killing him. He had been on the verge of doing it, the gun in his hand, before he’d changed his mind and decided, alright, fine, he’ll let this psycho hitman stay on the books for now. It turned out to be a good decision. Arby had hightailed out of his hospital bed and fled with Anton -- Philip Carvel -- in tow, and who else to target them than his former colleague?

But the trail has gone cold, and Lee’s left roaming the Network offices and corridors, a restless prowling hunter.

“The hell are you on about?” Wilson says, not looking up from the laptop screen in front of him.

“Just wondering,” Lee says, and he sets his shoes atop Wilson’s desk. “You’re the king now, aren’t you? It’s only natural that you should have… needs, wants. Walking in here and taking everything.”

“This isn’t the fucking mafia. This is about Janus.”

“Saving the human race, that’s right,” Lee says. A slow smile spreads across his face. “Don’t that mean you should be rewarded, then? Pretty young thing on the side. You can fetch any of your old pals out of their cells, though they’re hardly lookers themselves. Still--”

Wilson feels himself stiffen in disgust. “No.” He looks pointedly at Lee’s trainers on his desk. “Down, Lee.”

There’s a pause. Lee’s eyes are glittering dark and bright. The same horrid playfulness that Wilson saw before Lee hurt him that first time. _The first time_ , Wilson thinks, _and the last and the only._

It’s a strange kind of masochism to employ the man who maimed you. But it is Wilson’s way of making a point. He has had nightmares of Lee taking out his other eye like plucking flowers for a bouquet, a whole collection of bulging blinking organs at his feet. In the end, there is no monster scarier than one that you’ve experienced firsthand. Let other people have nightmares of him, too. Let him be the last thing the Network’s targets see, brutally gentle and smiling, a weapon pointed in the right direction by Wilson’s hand.

Wilson repeats: “ _Down_.”

Lee says, “Loud and clear, Admiral.” He sweeps his shoes back to the ground with a _thump._

Wilson clears his throat. It’s a stupid, irrelevant line of inquiry, anyway. Aren’t attachments a distraction? That was how Milner went wrong in the end, conceding to Philip Carvel’s alteration even though that hadn’t been the plan. He says, “I don’t need anyone.”

“You need me,” Lee says. He gestures to himself, still breathing.

Wilson laughs. “Not like that.”

***

Wilson’s depth perception is fucked. Honestly, it was a stroke of luck that he’d managed to hit Ian’s brother and those MI6 agents, but perhaps he owes it to the element of surprise and the intensity of the moment. Right now, Wilson knows that he could never be a match with Milner, who had renamed and remade herself in bloodsoaked fury.

So he practices. There’s an indoor shooting range in this Network facility, a fluorescent-lit area divided into firing lanes. After days spent crouched over research or huddled in meetings with Leah and other Network figures, he picks up a pistol in the evenings and he fires, over and over again.

He tries not to see Roy every time. Eventually, he doesn’t.

“Well, shiver me timbers,” says a voice, while Wilson’s in the midst of reloading, earmuffs slipped down to his neck. “The cap’n’s still onboard and not getting shut-eye.”

Lee. He’d been out all day, Wilson remembers. Running an errand, which is to say - strategic hostage-taking on account of a new biochemist that they’d employed to further study Carvel’s modifications to the vaccine.

Lee looks less put together than usual. His blue suit jacket is carelessly tucked over his bad arm; his tie loosely hangs from his neck, an unknotted slip of bright yellow. Upon closer inspection, there is blood on his dress shirt collar.

“It went well?” Wilson asks.

“‘Course,” Lee says. “Spot of trouble, but nothing I couldn’t handle. You’ll get the report tomorrow.” He puts down his green bag and rattles around in the armory rack, presumably restocking and rearranging.

Wilson hums a noise of acknowledgment. Then he slips on the earmuffs, steadies his aim toward the target on the wall, and pulls the trigger. Muffled _pop-pop-pop-pop_ s. When he’s done, he surveys his efforts -- a cluster of scorch marks that have missed the middle.

“Work in progress,” Lee remarks. He seems to have finished whatever he was doing with his bag, and he’s watching Wilson. “You’ll get there. Or not.”

“We’re not all born assassins.”

“Can’t all be Arby,” Lee agrees. He walks forward. “Give it here.”

A beat, and Wilson passes the gun along.

Lee takes position in the next firing booth. Levelling his arm in a one-handed grip, and the bullet ripples outward and embeds into the bulls-eye. Then, he lowers the pistol. “I never really liked shooting much. There are so many other ways to go about this job. But you know that.”

“Yes,” Wilson says, evenly. “I know.”

“Wilson,” Lee says. “Oh, Wilson. You’ve no idea what you’re doing.”

Wilson tenses. “Say that again.”

“You’ve no idea what you’re doing,” Lee repeats. He shrugs his shoulders in a jerky awkward arc, the lingering aftereffects of paralysis. “You saw an opportunity and you crowned yourself. Big bunny at the top, giving out orders, motivating the troops. Living the conspiracy nutter’s dream of finally _creating_ the conspiracies. But, the thing is, you’re not scary. Not by a long shot.”

“Scary?” Wilson echoes, a ragged scoff. “I’ve imprisoned my own friends. I’ve had people killed. I’ve threatened people--threatened _kids_ \--”

“You’re not there yet.”

“I don’t need your approval.”

“It’s not about me,” Lee says. “This is older and bigger than you. You’ve got to mean it in every way. What are you willing to do? How far can you go?”

Wilson’s hand goes to his abdomen, _rabbit_ engraved on his skin. “I know what being Mr. Rabbit means.”

“Do you?”

“Anyone can do what you do, Lee,” Wilson says. “Pouring poisons in people’s eyes isn’t a fucking artform. Right, fine. Fine. I can learn colourful uses of kitchen utensils. I can bash people’s heads in with pipes left and right. But that’s what you and others like you are for, and you need me at the center of all this. The spider in the web making the plans.”

“Right-o. Because you’re the _smartest_.”

“No,” Wilson retorts. “Remember what you said about believing? Because I do. I believe it more than any truth in existence.” He believes it like Milner did; he believes it like all those dead-eyed sleeper agents.

He thinks: Humans, as a species, are capable of such terrible things. We wage war; we hoard and use up resources; we oppress and ignore the disprivileged and the different. We make pretty stories out of lies and lies out of pretty stories, while the world is dying and suffering every second, every minute, every hour.

And those with power leading nations and corporations, what do they do except accept and worsen it? He thinks: _I’d burn it all if I could and let it start from scratch._

He has the virus and the vaccine; he has the pawns and the mouthpieces. What can he do with this? What will he do?

Wilson Wilson does not have an origin story like Milner. This title, _rabbit_ , is etched by his own knife. But he knows what pain is, and he wants to change the world. It should be enough. He needs it to be, or humanity will die.

He returns Lee’s gaze with his one eye.

Lee’s expression has morphed into something more thoughtful. He steps out from behind the booth divider, and now he’s standing almost uncomfortably close. He says, “You’re not special, and you’re not scary. Not yet. But I s’pose I’m along for the ride. But never forget that it were me that scared _you_ back then. It were me who made you scream so loud.”

“I could make you scream again,” Lee adds, “in another way.” Wilson’s eye widens at the innuendo laden in that single sentence.

“You’re insane,” he says, disbelievingly.

“I don’t think either of us are firing on all cylinders, skipper. Mutual maiming will do that to a body. Besides, you might be half-blind, but I’m not. I’ve seen you look at me. You like ordering me around.”

“Is it too complicated to believe that I might prefer to be on the other end of--” Wilson motions at Lee. “Jesus Christ. I don’t understand you. You were just implying that I’m an inadequate boss, and now you’re… propositioning.”

Lee’s eyes are damnably bright again. “All in good fun.”

“You killed my dad,” Wilson manages.

“One less guest to the wedding, then.” Lee taps Wilson’s eyepatch with his finger. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

But Lee has already turned around and started toward the door, green bag in hand, whistling.

***

The dilemmas are transmission and distribution. Wilson keeps going back to it. Can the ‘Russian flu’ be sufficiently contained when further unleashed? Should they go back to the vaccine formula that Milner had been about to distribute before focusing on Jessica’s blood? He is loath to distribute anything with Carvel’s modification, if it can be helped, even if it’s the more updated version, so to speak. Wilson can and will do many things, but being a party to an old man’s eugenics project isn’t one.

They’ve got teams on it, scientists by the dozen. Worst case scenarios, best case scenarios, until, one morning Leah says, fed up, “There’s been lifetimes of work dedicated to this. We must act or we’ll lose momentum.”

“Not with Carvel’s modification taken into account,” Wilson says. They could implement the previous incarnation; however, Carvel had clearly improved the more recent one in ways beyond deadly gene targeting. Perhaps there could be a combination of the two vaccines.

 _Maybe you could choose,_ says a quiet voice in his head. _Not a race or an ethnicity, not like that; of course not like that. But maybe there’s a better way--_

Shut up, he tells the voice. Shut up.

“Then we need Carvel,” Leah says, because it’s always bound to come back to him in the end.

Wilson puts a hand on his hat and paces across the room. “He might as well be dead. No CCTV sightings of him or Arby in a month. Frankly, we don’t even know how lucid he’ll be, even if we do get him.”

Her lips pursed, Leah says, “We need to press the Jessica angle. We thought they’d try to strike a deal or attempt a jailbreak, but they haven’t bitten.”

“Can’t exactly broadcast her torture across the airwaves,” Wilson says, curtly. He stops. He thinks. The tricks of the Network’s trade. “We’ll frame her for something. Plant her DNA somewhere. That’ll get Arby’s attention.”

“One of the others -- Ian or Becky?” She gives him a sharp look. She doesn’t think very highly of his decision to keep them alive. Jessica, she understands, for she’s the bait in the hook for Arby and Carvel, but Wilson keeps putting the fates of the others off.

Wilson hesitates. Just for a second. He says, “Becky.” Jessica is much more cooperative when Ian’s limbs are at risk.

A cough. Wearing that garish yellow suit, Lee pokes his head through the doorway. “Pardon me. I heard you discussing my old partner. I think I know a stronger incentive.”

He tells them about Arby’s attempts at settling down. The woman and the child, out of the country, though not out of reach.

“Go,” Wilson says. And Lee goes.

***

“We’re securing more leverage against him,” Wilson says, hands in his pockets. “Against your brother, I mean. Arby. Pietre.” 

Between the bars of her cell, Jessica stares at him, hollow-eyed. “Still playing the big bad rabbit, are you?”

“I’m better than her,” Wilson says, for not the first time, or the last. “You, of all people, should know that, Jessica. I’m not carving up your back for fun like she did. I know what it feels like. For the record, I’m sorry. I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

Wilson doesn’t respond. The cell she’s in has a reinforced glass window, sky and clouds visible through narrowed iron arrays. She makes to reach for the sun, one hand grasping, light split across her parted fingers.

She says, “It’s been two months. You haven’t got the guts to kill them, Wilson. Let them go.”

Wilson shakes his head. “You know what they’re like, Jessica. They think they’re the heroes. I can’t.” Give Becky and Ian freedom, and they’ll attempt to team up with Dugdale again, or talk to the press, or try _something_ to foil The Network _._ It’s what Wilson would have done, if he hadn’t switched sides.

Jessica tilts her head to the side. “So you’re the hero in all this?”

Wilson scoffs. She’s not naive. “You know it’s not as black-and-white as that.”

“You’ll never live up to them and their grand plans,” Jessica says, plainly. “You’re weak. Weaker than Milner. Weaker than my father, even though he’s already half-mad.”

Her taunt harkens back to Lee’s accusation: _What are you willing to do? How far can you go?_ And, honestly, Wilson wasn’t fucking asking for their feedback. “I suppose we’ll just have to see, then,” he says.

He leaves Jessica Hyde alone once again, back to ineffectually reaching for the sunlight.

***

A week later, Lee returns with a little girl. “You’ll see your Uncle Peter soon, alright, Amanda?” he says, gently patting her shoulder. “This nice lady will look after you for now, grab you something to eat. Bet you’ve been missing real British food.” He passes her along to another Network operative, and he gives Wilson a jaunty wave when he sees him watching.

Despite the cheer, Lee looks tired, faded dark circles underneath his eyes. Tess Rutter’s death has made the headlines. Public speculation runs rampant about what she’d been doing out of the country, turned up brutally murdered, her daughter missing. In another life, Wilson would’ve been speculating along with them, scrolling posts in unsolved mysteries forums.

“Good job,” he says, because it _was_ neatly done. He’s not petty enough to begrudge Lee of this.

“Missed me?” Lee asks.

Last night, Wilson dreamt of Lee prying out his other eye. His hand was ruinous on his face, clawing, scraping. He was whispering platitudes, tender, soft: _“Scream for me, oh Captain, my Captain_ ,” and Wilson had woken up, his heart beating in his chest, his prick hard as a rock.

It’s fucked. It’s revolting. Clearly, his idiotic subconscious has got some wires crossed. It doesn’t mean anything, except a bizarre way of processing the dangerous enigma that’s Lee.

Out loud, he says, “Nearly forgot that you were even gone,” and Lee smiles, as if he knows.

*** 

The next day, one of The Network’s scientists is found dead. Alexander Green, aged fifty-six, father of two. Dangling from a tree in a field of grass, he sways in the wind, his lab coat rippling like wings, his copper-silver hair like a warning flare.

A crude symbol of a rabbit is scratched into the tree trunk’s bark.

“Looks like the Playboy fucking bunny, don’t it?” Lee says, peering over at it. “If you ever have plans for a pirate flag, there’s the design for you.” He takes a swab from his pocket and begins to dab at the scene for DNA.

Wilson grimly surveys the scene. The gears of his mind are turning, spiralling. “The hell is he thinking? We’ve got Jessica. We’ve got the girl. We could kill them any moment now.”

“No guesses there, cap’n,” Lee says. “He doesn’t think you’ll follow through.” Wilson narrows his eyes, but Lee puts his gloved hand up. “Arby knows that you want Carvel. History’s proven that Carvel can only be motivated with Jessica’s well being threatened. You can’t kill her. Not yet.”

“And the girl?”

Lee shrugs. “I don’t have special insight into his mind, do I? I killed beside him, that’s all. But it’s Arby. Maybe he doesn’t care about playing happy families anymore, and he’s alright letting her be another rotten body like the rest in his long history.”

For a second, Wilson is pleased that Lee hadn’t brought up the usual taunting angle: _He doesn’t think you have it in you to kill them._ Forcibly, he pushes the thought from his head. He had promised that he would be better than Milner, and he _would_ prefer not to kill a child. This isn’t about getting a torturing murderer’s respect or regard just because he’s his employer.

“Could be,” Wilson says, out loud. “Still, I thought he’d be more direct than this. That he’d come to us in person and strike another deal. Targeting scientists, trying to intimidate us, or whatever -- maybe he’s taking Carvel’s suggestions.” Even if the man didn’t seem to be on the best of terms with his father, to put it extremely mildly. 

“Seems too smart for Arby, you mean,” Lee says, letting out a low chuckle. “Dunno. But you’re onto something, chief. There’s probably something else going on. Maybe that’s why it’s been so hard to find him when we’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.”

The wind picks up, and Lee turns his head up to the sky. Wilson finds himself following the movement: Lee’s deep blue suit jacket flapping at the tail; curly wisps of his dark hair swiveling with the breeze. Lee sighs, pockets his gloves and DNA vial, and he takes out a cigarette and lighter in their place. “Can you--? Forgot my e-cig in the car and this wind’s a bastard.”

Wilson opens his mouth to object, because he’s not Lee’s personal butler and doesn’t regret shooting him. But Lee murmurs, “Hand up, Wilson Wilson,” the cigarette clenched between his teeth, and Wilson jerkily brings his hand up, hovering, cutting off the wind.

Their hands are almost touching. “You shouldn’t smoke,” Wilson says.

“Because the Illuminati invented tobacco, I s’pose?” Lee clicks on the lighter and brings it to his mouth.

“Because you’ll get sick.”

Lee laughs and laughs.

***

“I met her,” Becky says. “I met Amanda, Wilson. They were taking me for treatment, and I saw her in the hallway.” Her blue eyes are fiery as always. “She says she’s waiting for her Uncle Pietre to pick her up. What the hell are you doing?”

“What I have to do.”

“Jesus Christ,” she says. “So she’s another bargaining chip to get Pietre and Carvel back since we’re not enough. Brilliant. A little kid.”

Wilson lets out a soft snort. “Grant’s a kid. Alice is a kid. They’ve both killed people.”

“They were forced into the situations and traumatized. The answer isn’t to bring more kids into this.” She raises her chin at him. “And why do you even think this is going to go remotely to plan? Carvel’s stark raving. Pietre isn’t going to sit down for a nice cuppa with you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Wilson says. He’s dragged a chair up to her cell, his arms crossed, the two guards nearby. He visits Becky the most out of his former friends, using her treatment as an excuse. Withdrawal has been rough on her. She’s pale and a few kilos thinner, reminiscent of a ghost, even with the Network’s medical staff attending to her.

In time, she’ll heal up. Wilson wishes that she could come ‘round, that she would see what he’s seeing about the world. It is a weakness, but he cannot forget that she was his friend.

Becky stands from her cot. “Here’s a question you should be asking, Wilson. Where was Philip Carvel -- Mark Dane -- Anton -- all these years before he turned up out of nowhere? The Shenley records said he was dead, and Milner couldn’t find him. You really think a lunatic patient could do that by himself?” 

“Is this advice, Becky?” Wilson asks, raising his eyebrow.

“No,” she bites out. “But there’s another conspiracy going on. A conspiracy within a conspiracy. Maybe your Network mates are lying to you, hiding secrets from you. Maybe there’s something else out there that’s bigger and scarier than them. If you won’t listen to me lecture about basic morality and doing the right fucking thing, at least be properly paranoid like you’ve always been. Stop this already.”

He can’t stop. It’s already too late. The earth is atrophying, and he’s at the helm. And he isn’t afraid of anyone, not any longer, even if he does still see that smile in his dreams.

All he fears is the end of the world.

“I appreciate your concern, Becky,” he says, getting up to leave. “It means a lot. You’re not wrong. I was going about this all wrong, chasing Arby rather than Carvel. I’ll handle this, get the plan back on track, and-- I hope your health improves. Really.”

“You delusional wanker,” she says, and she sounds sad. 

***

Bejan had once asked in the Utopia Experiments chatroom: _What would you do if you could make a deal with the devil like the scientist?_

The replies had flooded in. Millions of pounds. Superpowers. Dating a famous actress. Grant had said something about buying either a football club or a jet. Becky hadn’t been online at the time, but Wilson thinks, in hindsight, he knows what her answer would’ve been.

Wilson hadn’t responded right away. Typing and retyping in the chat window. His mind was recalling the devil in the comics, the figure of many forms. _Rabbit_ \-- and now, here, in the present, his fingers dip against his side through his suit -- _a horseman of the apocalypse -- and wasn’t there that panel of a bird with black-tipped wings?_

His train of thought is interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in,” he says.

It’s Lee. “There was a hit for the DNA at the scene. Might want to see this, boss.”

***

The guards bring Jessica and Ian into a dimly lit interrogation room. The walls are bare and there are no windows, and you could practically smell the musty despair in the air.

Wilson’s waiting for them, sitting atop the table. He can’t stop his leg from twitching up-and-down, up-and-down.

Jessica’s expression is set into that usual eerie blankness. Ian looks tired and wary, stubble on his cheeks and jumpsuit rumpled. It’s been ages since Wilson’s seen him.

“Christos,” Wilson says, before either of them can speak.

The name gets Jessica’s attention. The blue iciness of her eyes sharpens.

“You saw him die,” Wilson presses. “Didn’t you?”

“Gutted him,” Lee volunteers, stepping out of the shadows, “in the literal way. ‘Twas before my time, but that never stops the stories from going ‘round.”

“Funny,” Wilson retorts. “One would think you’ve been spooning out eyes for the Network forever, the way you’re like.”

“Cheers. Always a pleasure to have my work appreciated.”

Wilson rolls his eye. But he finds his fidgeting stilling at the sight of Lee’s impish smile, and he thinks of that windy day out in the field, the corpse hanging from the tree, their hands almost touching around Lee’s lighter.

Ridiculous. He pushes the almost-sensation away from his mind.

“I don’t understand you,” Ian says, with a slow shake of his head. “You’re just standing here bantering with the _psycho_ who tortured you. You like calling the shots for this entire loony organization. You’re fucked in the head, Wilson. What’s this all about, anyway? Are you finally going to off us? Where’s Becky--? Is she--?”

“She’s fine,” Wilson reassures him. “Treatment’s going okay. She’ll be okay. But we’re not here to talk about Becky.” He nods his head, and Lee takes out a knife from his green bag on the floor. “Jessica. You’re going to answer our questions, or Lee will start hacking away at Ian. A thumb, then another thumb, then some scars on his back to match yours.”

Ian jerks backward in alarm, but the guard restrains him. “What the absolute _fuck_ is wrong with you--”

His tone firm, Wilson says, “This is important.” He gets down from the table, and he approaches Jessica. “Christos is alive. How?”

Her lips part. Then: “That’s impossible. I saw him. I saw it all.”

“DNA doesn’t lie,” Wilson says, reaching for a folder behind him. “And there’s CCTV footage to match.” The image is slightly blurred, but it had recorded him a block away from the murdered scientist’s house. Dark-haired, dark-bearded, his face half-obscured from the camera. Next to him is a stocky figure who can only be Arby.

Jessica lets out a quiet exhale.

Ian interjects: “Hold on. CCTV can be doctored and DNA planted. That’s your -- the Network’s -- entire MO. Either you’re being played, or is this is some stupid trick you’ve made up to try to get Jessica to do something.”

“It could be,” Wilson acknowledges. “But I’m the one asking the questions here. Who was -- _is_ \-- Christos, Jessica? How does he know your father?” He nods again, and the guard holding Ian shoves him against the table. His hand is splayed out on the surface, and smiling, Lee advances forward and sets the knife against skin. Ian, who had been struggling, suddenly freezes.

Wilson continues: “I won’t let you drag this out like you did with Milner. You’re tough, Jessica. You can withstand nearly anything, and I respect that. But I know that you’ve got a weak spot for Ian, and I’d be a fool not to use this. And look, I’m a reasonable man. What I need is any information you remember. Anything at all.”

Jessica’s voice sounds distant. “If you hurt Ian, I will kill you. Slowly and painfully. I’ll save your eye for last so you can see everything I’m doing to you.”

“You’re not in a position to make threats,” Lee pipes up, tapping the knife on Ian’s hand, prompting Ian to grimace. “Besides, you shouldn’t worry about this Christos fellow. He faked his death and abandoned you, sounds like. If he’s been alive all this time, why didn’t he come back for you?”

A flicker of emotion crosses her face. She says, “I don’t know. All I know is that he saved me and my father, and he taught me how to protect myself. He didn’t even tell me his last name. Whenever he had to use a name, he used Hyde, like he called me.”

Wilson asks: “Do you think he was ex-Network? Or working for a government or agency?”

“He could’ve been. He didn’t say anything about it. He knew how to use all sorts of weapons, so that doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

“You spent years with him. There must’ve been _something_. Any hint of his background. Specific places, people-- anything you remember him by.” 

Jessica’s silent. Thinking. “He had a small tattoo on his abdomen. Looked like a leaf. A crown of leaves. He said that he got it when he was young. It was a stupid little thing. Nothing like--” She shakes her head; Wilson realizes that she must be thinking of her father. “I don’t have your smoking gun, Wilson. Are you going to kill us now or go back to acting tough and ignoring us?”

“Does the name Deucalion mean anything to you?”

Leah walks through the doorway, pristine in a suit as white as her hair. Wilson turns in surprise, while Lee gives a half-wave, knife still in hand.

“He’s from mythology,” Wilson murmurs, thoughtfully. “The Greek equivalent of _Nūḥ_ \-- Noah. Survivor of a world’s flood. Built his own boat. Is this another project codename like Janus?”

Jessica blinks. “Deucalion,” she repeats. “I haven’t heard that before. But Christos always used to tell me that one day, we both would always be alive by the end of the world. That even if the sea took everything, it’d be the two of us. Because he was training me to be strong and clever and make my own Molotov cocktails.” 

“It’s more than that,” Leah says, her mouth a thin line.

Ian says, “It doesn’t end, does it? What is this now-- more mad science eugenics? An atom bomb? The zombie fucking apocalypse? God, Wilson, you’ve got no idea what’s going on. You’re like that kid’s story about that stuffed rabbit who wants to be real.”

“Velveteen,” Wilson supplies. “And I am. I killed your brother, Ian. I shot him in the head myself.” He tells the guards: “Take them back to their cells. We’re done here.” Ian lets out a terrible shuddering sound, his eyes widening-- and it feels like there’s a heavy weight lifted off Wilson’s chest. Ian’s already gone before Wilson can hear the rest of his response. 

Lee is looking at him through his eyelids, his knife spinning between his fingers.

“Now,” Wilson says, addressing Leah, “tell me about Deucalion.”

***

The e-cigarette smoke is like a billowing wreath around Lee’s head. Like a carcinogen stormy halo; like waves of rolling fog. He’s standing on the roof of the facility, peering at the sky again like he had during that wind-blown day.

Wilson follows him. His head is awash with new revelations, and there are, probably, a million other people he could seek out right now. Any other Network agents, or even Becky, even if she would rage at him again.

Wilson thinks: _This is a sickness beyond the culling of populations. More than the guilt, more than an engineered epidemic of my own making. All the things I want, and all the scars I’m giving myself._

“This is,” he says, sidling up to Lee, “insane. All of this.”

“You get used to it,” Lee says, languidly, breathing out. “Part of the job. Or any job, really. Isn’t that what it’s always like? God complexes and ambition.”

“And bioterrorism, genocide, and murder.”

“That, too.”

Wilson huffs out a short laugh. “I think I envy your compartmentalization abilities. I didn’t -- I didn’t mean to tell Ian like that. I didn’t mean to tell him, ever.”

“It’s what had to be done,” Lee says, with a shrug of his shoulders. “You’ve got all those brains, remember? You just have to figure out the right things to say to yourself to make it okay.”

“Necessary,” Wilson echoes, remembering.

“To make it necessary,” Lee agrees. He tilts his e-cig toward Wilson as if he’s making a toast.

They are both silent. Eventually, Lee says, “I told Arby that I felt like the things we did were caught in my teeth. Like a bad piece of spinach. It isn’t regret or remorse or anything as easy as that. I don’t think the things we do can be reduced down to that.

“But I try to get it out anyway. I brush with spearmint toothpaste every morning and night. I think I draw it out a little every time I smoke like this.”

And he turns his head, blinking once, twice, thrice. “Humour me, Wilson. Will you kiss it away? For me?”

Wilson’s breath catches in his throat. He leans forward, and the smoke swallows them up.

He thought it would feel like the raw rip of his eye again. He thought it would feel like he’d looked at the sun too long, and it had come down from the sky and started eating him with its light. 

It doesn’t. It’s only a kiss. Lee’s mouth is dry but soft while Wilson’s beard roughly rasps against him. He tastes like ash and mint. His inert arm is like a dagger against Wilson’s hip. 

Wilson reaches his hand out to grip the back of Lee’s head, tugging dark hair, because it’s not _enough_ , it has to be _deeper_. He needs this kiss to reach into the depths of his insides and wrench out his heart. 

No -- entrails, pancreas, viscera, all. They kiss until Wilson cannot breathe, because maybe the lungs are enough. 

He breaks away, gasping. The smoke dispelled, he sees Lee smiling at him with kiss-bitten lips. 

“You see?” Lee says, his tone maddeningly measured. “Wasn’t that good?” 

Wilson fixes his now-crooked hat. “I don’t know who’s crazier at this point,” he says, licking his lips. “You or me.” 

“Thought we agreed it was the job.” 

“What’s next after-- this?” 

“My car or your desk?” Wilson flushes, and Lee’s smile turns into something dimmer and tighter. “We go back to work, of course. You’ve a world to save, Wilson Wilson.” He tucks away his e-cigarette and turns toward the stairwell.

Wilson puts his hand on his chest, and finds it beating alive and warm. 

***

The next day, there’s another body. Leah’s nephew, sixth form, centre forward on his school’s football team. Strangled in a CCTV blindspot, wallet gone. A permanent marker inked rabbit is scrawled in the pavement underneath his left trainer. 

“His mum’s a right bitch,” Leah says. “Wouldn’t have minded at all if it were her. I sent him fifteen quid on birthdays and Christmases.” 

Wilson doesn’t know what to say. Condolences are out of the question. Instead he says, “I would’ve thought that your family would be…” He leaves the sentence unfinished. 

“We can’t all erase everything.” 

She’s one of the public faces of Corvadt with her own substantial connections to boot. Wilson supposes that allowances were made as long as she put The Network first, or perhaps Milner thought it would make for future leverage in case she had second thoughts. 

He looks at the pictures on his desk. The boy sprawled on the dirty ground. The rabbit in trailing black. 

“That’s not all they left.” Leah slides forward a photocopied slip of paper. “It was stuffed in his book bag. It isn’t his handwriting. It isn’t Arby’s, either.” 

“A message from Christos?” Wilson orients his head so his eye can focus on it. 

“You’re half-right.”

There is a row of orderly symbols and pictograms on the paper, patterns of lines and shapes. Wilson grimaces. It appears to be some kind of code. But what catches his immediate attention is a black-and-white drawing of a bird done in a different hand, the same artist whose work that Wilson once pored over for conspiracies that would unravel the world.

The bird’s beak is open and its dark-fringed wings are outstretched and unfurled. Its feathers are covered in eyes. 

***

The stuffed penguin dances in the little girl’s lap. She makes its black flippers flap and flutter. 

“Have you given him a name?” Lee asks. 

Amanda shakes her head, her blonde curls waving back and forth. “I don’t know, Mr. Lee. I haven’t been able to think of any.” 

Lee lets out a low laugh. “What d’you mean, you can’t think of any? There are a tonne of names to pick from. James, Joe, Jack…” 

“Those aren’t right for a penguin.” 

“I s’pose not.” 

She bites her lip, her eyebrows furrowed. “I wish-- Uncle Peter would help with names. He was always better remembering the names of people in cartoons.” 

“He’s still not here yet,” he reminds her. 

“I wish he’d hurry up. Plus, I miss my mum loads. I haven’t seen her in _ages._ ” Amanda looks at him pleadingly. 

“I know you do, love.” He inches forward and gives her hand a squeeze. “She’s still in hospital. Still sick. When she’s better, you’ll be able to see her.” The lies sound so easy and smooth from him. “And what’s this I hear about you not eating well?” 

“I don’t like the food they give me very much. It’s not like Mum’s cooking.” 

Lee says, firmly, “You should eat. You’re a growing child, and you shouldn’t ever go to bed hungry.” He drops his hand from hers, and he reaches into his suit. “How about -- do you know what these are?” 

She examines the box. “Oh! You brought sweets.” 

“Chocolate raisins,” Lee confirms. “They’re not quite… superfoods… but there are raisins in them. If you ask me, dried grapes are plenty healthy. If you promise to eat better, I’ll let you have them as a little snack. Besides, they’re your Uncle Peter’s favorites.” 

“I didn’t know that,” Amanda says. A pause, and then she says, “Can I have them?” 

“As long as you promise.” 

“I promise.” 

“Then here you are.” In a faux magnanimous gesture, he bestows the box into her care.

Gingerly, she accepts it, perching it on her lap next to the penguin. “I’ll save ‘em for after lunch,” she says. “Because they’re dessert.” 

“Clever girl,” Lee says, with an approving nod. “By the way, I might be able to help you with your naming problem. You see your little penguin here? He’s what’s called an emperor penguin. Biggest of all the penguins. I suggest naming him after a real life emperor.” 

“Emperor?” 

“Like kings,” Lee says. “Big important leaders who rule countries and nations.” 

“That sounds like that might work.” She scrunches up her nose. “But I don’t know any emp--emperor names.” 

“Hm. I can’t remember a lot myself, unfortunately. It’s been years since I was last in school, and my memory’s rubbish. I think there was a bloke named Constantine.” 

Amanda giggles. “That’s a funny name, Mr. Lee.” 

“History can be funny,” he says, flashing her a wide amused grin. He turns to the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. “I wonder if anyone else might have ideas.” 

Wilson, watching the monitor in his office, frowns. He picks up his Network-issued smartphone on his desk. 

Lee takes out his own mobile. He reads out loud: “Titus, Nero, Marcus Aurelius, Caligula.” 

“How about that last one?” Amanda says. “Except we can call him Cal for short, because that’s easy.” 

“Caligula the Penguin,” Lee says, tapping the stuffed animal on its head. “Good choice. It looks like he’s finally got a name.” He rises from his sitting position on the floor next to her. “It’s time for me to return to work. See you later, love.” 

“Bye, Mr. Lee.” She adds, after some consideration: “Thanks for the sweets and for helping me name Cal.” 

“You’re welcome. I won’t take all the credit, though.” His eyes flicker to the security camera again. Wilson looks away from the screen. 

***

Jessica is drawing again. 

She doesn’t do it often, but sometimes she scratches pictures out of the dust on the floor. Aimless sweeps of her index finger while her eyes retain that unearthly patina. 

“What does this mean?” Wilson says, holding the paper up to the glass. Lee is standing slouched behind him. 

He thought it would take a while to shake her out of her stupor. He thought that Lee would have to drag Ian in here and remind her again. But the gloss is gone, replaced by recognition, even though her finger keeps darting, dashing.

She says, “Your Network codebreakers aren’t smart enough?” 

“We don’t have time for this,” Wilson says, sharply. “What does it say?” 

She walks up to the reinforced glass wall, her head cocked to the side. “It’s an old code that Christos and I created. Based on conversations and inside jokes. That symbol that looks like a coffin means ‘R’ because I always told him that if he died, I would leave the ugliest roses by his grave.”

Jessica puts her dust-blackened finger to the glass and begins to trace. Smeared and mirrored, she writes: 

_RUN RABBIT RUN_

More posturing. Wilson can work with this. He just needs the right instrument. 

“Jessica,” he says. “I want to make a deal with you.” 

***

Most important things come in threes. That’s the rule. Newton’s laws of motion. The laws of thermodynamics. The laws of robotics, although this isn’t _that_ kind of science fiction story. 

Father, son, and holy spirit. The Christianity metaphor is so damn trite, but what else can you say when you have a dead man named Christos running around, his appearance heralded by images of doves and demons? 

Back to the triad. The leader: Mr. Rabbit, Letan, Milner, whoever she is, the secret agent, the scarred avenger, the visionary. The scientist: Philip Carvel, Mark Dane, Anton, the artist, the madman, the genius.

And the third of the Network’s triumvirate. Erased from all the books. Buried under the detritus of time and redactions. 

“For this story’s purposes, we’ll call him Benjamin,” Leah said, when she had recounted the sordid tale to Wilson, Lee listening on. 

“Benjamin led a faction of The Network that had rather esoteric methods. He shared Milner and Carvel’s concerns over the chaos that would engulf a world of dwindling resources hoarded by the powerful few, but Benjamin and his followers were specially tasked to find alternate solutions and failsafes to Janus. 

“The taskforce looked into anything, no matter how bizarre or peculiar. Anything to preserve the human race.

“There was one goal that ended up sticking. And it scared Milner so much that she shot Benjamin dead herself.” 

***

“How’d you end up in this line of work?” 

They’re on the rooftop again -- aren’t they a fucking _cliche_ \-- though Lee is half-sitting on banister of the stairwell, like he’s about to slide down at any moment. 

Lee blows out a plume of smoke. “We’re playing twenty questions now, are we?” 

“The Network doesn’t exactly keep detailed employee records.” 

“You were trying to dig up information about me? Isn’t that inappropriate workplace harassment? Stalking? You shouldn’t let one snog go to your head, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t -- don’t fucking call me that.” Wilson glares in irritation. Lee’s the bastard who had asked Wilson to kiss him in the first place. 

Contemplative, Lee says, “I think your heart would be sweet. Nothing like your eyes doused in spice and acid.” 

“Bleach is a base, not an acid.” 

Lee pauses, his e-cigarette hanging mid-drag. “See, Wilson. There it is. All that knowledge, and you still couldn’t stop me from hurting you.” 

“We have to find conversational topics that aren’t my torture,” Wilson mutters.

“And we could go out for dinner and a movie. Maybe we could _hold hands._ ” 

“I asked,” Wilson says, “why you’re here. With the Network. That’s all, Lee.” It’s a personal question, but it’s always been personal between them, ever since Lee pried out his eye and killed his dad and Wilson shot him -- yeah, alright, it will always be about this. The terrible things they’ve done to each other and the terrible things they will keep on doing, and Wilson cannot give it up anymore than he can grow a replacement eye.

Lee shrugs. He says, “It’s not complicated, skipper. I was an enforcer for some shady characters who were fond of money and coke. Coppers got lucky one day, and I was set to be locked up for years, and then somebody visited and said my particular skill set was needed.” 

“An offer you couldn’t refuse.” 

“Funny. Is this a dodgy way of asking me out to a movie with you?”

“Shut up, Lee.”

Wilson kisses him again. One hand on the railing, one hand twined in Lee’s tie, steadying him, steadying them both. Then he lets go. This time around, he leaves Lee gasping. 

***

_It’s almost normal_ , Wilson thinks. The way Lee started. Hitman for hire transferred to the next job. He supposes it doesn’t all start with a knock on the door, two men asking you questions you cannot answer. It doesn’t all start in the cradle like Jessica and Pietre, bodies turned into weapons. Or like Becky, seeing her father deteriorate before her very eyes. 

For not the first time, he wonders how Milner started. He knows the story of the scar and the obsession that she and Carvel shared. But who was she before? 

_We can’t all erase everything,_ Leah said. 

But Milner could. He can.

Maybe the beginnings don’t even matter at all.

 _Except_ , Wilson thinks, _that’s the reason why we’re in this mess in the first place._

Perhaps this has all been the inherited mania of Mr. Rabbit taking over. The lines of the scar branching out and taking root in his head and his heart. If only Lee could’ve excised it all. But Lee doesn’t have that kind of power, because Wilson chose the knife and the name, and you cannot battle corruption that you welcome into your own body like an unstoppable contagion. 

***

That night, he brings a chess set outside Becky’s cell. “I used to play online with Bejan all the time,” he says. “He was better than playing against the computer. Told me that he’d been in a club when he was in school.” 

She gives him a stone-faced look. “I’m not having board game night with you, Wilson.” 

“I know,” he says. “I’ll be playing against myself, but if you want to join in, tell me.” He lays out the pieces, black against white. 

“Chess,” she says, unimpressed. “Like you’re a movie villain.” 

“Haven’t been doing anything particularly villainous lately.” He admits, “I let Jessica and Amanda go.” 

“You did what?” she says, her eyes wide. “Not out of the goodness of your heart, I assume.” 

For a fleeting second, Wilson remembers Lee calling him _sweetheart_ , and a furious blush warms his face. He composes himself, quickly, and he focuses on the chessboard.

“I had a favour to ask,” Wilson manages to say, advancing a white pawn. “She agreed.” 

“Meanwhile, leaving me and Ian here to rot, because I wager that wasn’t an option.” 

“It’s a process. This has always been temporary, Becky. You’ll be out of here someday. I just have to deal with-- another player.” He moves black’s knight. 

She doesn’t bother refuting his bland reassurances. “So, I was right. There _is_ another conspiracy. Something bigger and scarier.” 

“Not scarier,” Wilson says. “Just different. Unknown. We’ll figure it out.” 

“But it _is_ bigger. CIA catching on?” 

Wilson shakes his head. “The CIA is a part of the Network, in a way, while it also… isn’t. There’s a command structure that we’ve got strings tied to, along with many organizations all over the world.” He resumes moving the chess pieces, an exchange of rapid click-clacks. “It’s a big operation, but it’s not as big as you might think. Janus is a well-kept secret. We need to proceed carefully, especially with Milner out of the picture.” 

“The mighty puppeteer,” Becky says, ironic bitterness permeating her tone. “Now you’re unnerving the shut-in conspiracy nerds in front of their computers.” 

He snorts. “You sound like Lee. I probably deserve it a bit. Once I got access to Network archives, I might’ve dug around to research if there were any truth to incidents like Rendlesham Forest. Roswell. Area 51. Lee saw me looking and called me ‘Captain Kirk’ for days.” Wilson maintains that it’s purely academic interest, and nearly anyone in his position would do the same. It isn’t as if he’s ever doubted the moon landing or the earth being round, for fuck’s sake. 

She lets out a choked-sounding chortle. “God. And you’re the maniac with his finger on the button to initiate a worldwide pandemic.” 

“I am.” 

“Palling around with the hitman who pulled out your eye.” 

“It’s complicated,” Wilson says, drawing the white king into checkmate. 

***

_What would you do if you could make a deal with the devil?_

In his dreams, Wilson sees Bejan saying this to him out loud, mouth moving, green eyes piercing, teetering at the edge of a tower. He has his arms outstretched, his back to the wind, and Wilson thinks: _It’s all wrong. You never jumped. They pushed you._ We _pushed you._

Bejan repeats, insistent, “What would you do, Wilson?” 

***

Two days later, Jessica Hyde comes back with a vial, liquid as blue as her eyes. “He didn’t die,” she says, “until I blew him up.” 

Wilson asks, “Did you--?”

“I’m tired of being a walking chemistry experiment,” she says. “Will you hold up your end of the bargain? Or will I have to blow you up, too?”

“As long as it is what you say it is.” 

It’s an awkward intermission, waiting for the lab results in his office. Amanda is by Jessica’s side, clutching her stuffed penguin, its white fabric belly smeared with soot. She has her thumb in her mouth, and her eyes look older than they had last. Wilson, discomforted, looks down at his desk, his fingers drumming on the surface. 

They’re interrupted by the sound of a gunshot ringing.

“Fuck,” Jessica says. “I _told_ him not to--” 

“What the hell is that?” Wilson says, tersely. “Jessica, we had an agreement.” 

She laughs, throaty and low. “He couldn’t wait. But I s’pose you might understand.” 

Another burst of gunfire. Wilson identifies the source of noise as coming from above. “Shit.” 

***

“If you’re dead, it’s your own fault.” 

Lee doesn’t answer, but his bloodstained suit-clad chest heaves. Nearly there, then. Wilson stands over him feeling the inexplicable urge to acquire a cane to poke him with. It could match his hat and eyepatch. Maybe Becky was right. He has gone full film villain. 

“Satisfied?” Wilson says, dryly, to Arby. 

Pietre Carvel is holding a gun in one hand and Lee’s e-cigarette in another. Wilson waits for the inevitable justifications -- his murdered girlfriend; the girl used as blackmail; the cruelties of what he’s suffered at the hands of The Network and his father -- but instead, he just nods.

He nods, and he drops Lee’s e-cigarette off the rooftop. 

Then he shuffles down the stairs.

Wilson mutters to the dying man on the roof: “You’re an idiot.” Lee’s eyes are shut, his breathing more shallow. It’s as if he’s drowning in the red, and he’ll bleed everything out this way. Not from toothbrush scrubs or smoking sessions or stolen kisses, after all. 

Wilson’s vision starts to blur. 

The decision is easy. It shouldn’t be, but Lee’s life and death has been Wilson’s ever since the day they maimed each other. 

He takes out a syringe filled with the cloudy blue substance and jabs it in Lee’s neck. 

_What would you do_ , Bejan had asked, _if you could make a deal with the devil?_

 _Deucalion sought immortality,_ Leah had said. _Or the closest thing to it, anyway._

Sinew of skin knits back together. Ashen flesh ripples into rosy vitality. Lee’s breathing, a wheezy rattle, eases smooth and rhythmic, and his eyes blink open. His rigid hand unfurls, and he reaches up to Wilson kneeling over him. 

“You can still cry,” Lee says, in soft wonder, his thumb slipping underneath Wilson’s eyepatch, and it’s like he’s talking about a sunset or a painting, not the hollow dead hole that he’d carved out himself. 

“Fuck off,” Wilson says, and he brushes away the tears from his working eye with the back of his hand. “This isn’t about you. This is about Deucalion.” 

Lee chuckles. His hand moves to cup Wilson’s bearded cheek. “You gave me _this_ , Wilson? You gave me _forever_?” 

“It’s not the Philosopher’s Stone,” Wilson says, peevishly. “If I firebomb you ‘til there’s almost nothing left, you’ll still die.” 

Leah had explained: _Deucalion is a formula that heals injuries and shores up one’s immune system. ‘Benjamin’ and his team reverse-engineered it from one of The Network’s pet projects - a degenerative condition that you know as Deel’s syndrome_.

“Nonetheless,” Lee says, “it apparently gave dear Mummy Rabbit such a fright. But you’re not scared, are you?” 

Wilson says, “I’m not.” 

Like The Network’s preceding generation, Wilson has always known that the world will end. Flood, famine, plague, and war. Humanity tearing itself into pieces while the earth crumbles. 

Milner had feared that with Deucalion, humanity wouldn’t be humanity any longer. That it was Benjamin’s folly that would further inequality. Power to the few and the strong -- an unbeatable army and unyielding leaders -- ushering in an unbalanced utopia. 

But for Wilson Wilson -- Wilson, who built his own fortified bunker -- Wilson, who stocked up years of supplies and food -- Wilson, who learnt skills from lockpicking to filtering his own piss to making fire without matches -- 

Wilson knows that a weapon like this means survival. And he will always pick survival, and more so as he readies himself to poison thousands and forcibly bottleneck humankind into stability. 

He tucks the syringe into his coat. He kisses Lee for the third time, and when Lee breathes, “What will you have me do next, sweetheart?” Wilson doesn’t protest. He’s that kid’s story that Ian had mentioned. Velveteen becoming real. Transformation, not extraction. Heart, eye, teeth, hands. He will not turn back, nor will he erase his scars. He’s Mr. Rabbit, and he has a world to remake. 


	2. evisceration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lee will always have a weakness for things that can kill him.

It starts with Lee wondering about all the ways that he can tear Wilson apart. His other eye, naturally, and then his hand to match Lee’s paralyzed one. Then, maybe he’ll choke the life out of him, his hand clasped around Wilson’s throat, taking away his voice, his laugh, his know-it-all words.

Sometimes he’s so fucking angry that he can’t even sleep from the rage. 

He doesn’t know how it turns into him thinking how Wilson can tear him apart. He imagines here, Wilson’s fingers on Lee’s throat, hesitant before turning merciless, leaving bruises and nailmarks. He imagines there, Wilson pressing the muzzle of a gun against Lee’s mouth, bringing him down to his knees, and Lee parts his lips, opening, offering. 

Loathe as Lee is to admit it, Wilson could probably survive him again. But can Lee survive Wilson? Another chunk taken out of him, seasoned hitman incapcitated once again.

Lee has always had a weakness for things that can kill him. 

***

Lee is afraid, at first, that he will not be able to get underneath Wilson’s skin the way Wilson does his. 

His death haunts his body like an omen. The gunshot wound marred red on his abdomen, nerves fucked and frayed. Discarded, suffocating, finding relief in the succour of nicotine, liquor, and sharp mint.

But of course Lee gets to Wilson. How could Lee not? He has held Wilson’s eye in his gloved hand. Wilson cannot forget that. 

Wilson bristles at the taunts; tenses at Lee’s flirtations; finds vicious gratification in ordering Lee around. Like telling a mutt: Fetch. Heel. Bite. And Lee does, even as he tugs the metaphorical leash around his neck. 

It’s not all about Lee, of course.

One afternoon, he sees Wilson stretching, yawning. In a rare occurrence, he’s dressed slightly less formally. Merely a blazer over a button-up, and it’s untucked. The fabric rides up as he lifts his arms, and Lee catches a glimpse of the cuts on his stomach. 

So this is what he’s done to himself. 

Wilson’s falling into corruption, or darkness, or whatever boring people call it. Lee wants to drag him deeper. 

***

The night after Wilson kisses him for the first time, Lee wanks himself raw. 

He’s staying in a grubby flat, Network-funded, one housing complex amongst many. There are many safehouses across the city, weapons and false IDs stashed, first-aid kits and Lee’s favourite brand of liquor in the cabinet. 

He’s stripped himself down to his pants, and he puts his working hand over his left eye. He moves it to obscure the other. He will never see the world as Wilson does, and isn’t that a good thing? He will never believe in this high-minded pursuit of saving humanity -- in the power of Janus -- in any of these mad science dreams. He knows his gun, his knife, his spoon, the gas, and that’s enough. 

So many horrible things he’ll do for The Network. So many horrible things that he’ll become. It’s a job, but--

He wants to see that fevered look in Wilson’s eye again, the one that flared when Leah spoke of life everlasting. He wants to see how Wilson will burn down the world, burying it with grand justifications and a saviour complex, sending Lee to ignite the kindling. Wilson’s mouth on Lee’s mouth, brutal and biting, and he’d practically _humped_ Lee’s unmoving hand, waist dragging against it, forcing friction and heat. 

Lee’s hand goes to the shape of his stirring prick. He’s learnt that he hates being forced to do it one-handed -- he prefers teasing himself, one hand around the shaft, other cupping his balls -- or as he jerks off, his fingers up his arse, seeking and filling. But this is what Wilson has left him as. Willing blunted tool and broken weapon that he is, panting after his torture-victim-turned-boss’ cock. 

And so this is how he spends the night, guided by fantasies of the rooftop encounter turned more and rougher. He comes into his palm and wheezes staggering pained breaths, until he can’t touch himself any longer. 

Later, when he brushes his teeth, he cannot get the taste of Wilson off his tongue. 

***

It’s funny how it’s taken them time to get to this point. As if they’re schoolyard lovers tiptoeing around each other, restricted to makeouts and quarrels, until they finally, finally shag. 

After the hostage business had concluded, Lee had practically dragged Wilson into an empty cell in the facility, hauling him onto a dusty cot. 

Lee cannot take his hands off Wilson. He’s still bloodstained from the day’s events, and it’s going to take quite an adjustment to get used to his body functioning, and whatever else this bizarre science experiment entails -- but the details can wait. 

He’s unbuttoning, unfastening, crooning reassurances in between kisses. “I’m gonna make this good for you,” he murmurs. “Are you hard already, sweetheart?”

Wilson’s eye is shut and his whole body shudders as he drinks in every kiss. Lee sheds the layers of his clothes and Wilson’s, ‘til everything is exposed and laid out bare. 

Lee’s bullet wound isn’t gone. He finds himself relieved to find it there, and he sees Wilson staring. 

“We match,” Lee says, with a sardonic gesture at Wilson’s jagged 兔 on flesh. 

“It’s different,” Wilson says, with a frown. “I wanted there to be proof. Evidence. So I’d know and I’d feel it.” 

Lee chuckles. “Funny how I’ve spent all this time dreaming of the ways I’d carve you up. But you’ve gone and done it to yourself.” He puts his hand on Wilson’s stomach, the crescents of his fingernails stroking skin and hair and scar. Then, he goes lower, until he’s gripping Wilson’s cock. 

Wilson’s already aroused. He lets out a soft grunt as Lee makes contact, bearded lip trembling. “Go on, Lee,” he says. “I need you to--” He cuts off, flushed, while Lee traces the tip with thumb. 

“My hand? My mouth? Or do you want to fuck me already? Or you could touch me, skipper, if you’d stoop that low. And I can be in you--” 

“Stop _talking_ ,” Wilson says, crossly. “Your mouth.” 

Lee obliges. He’s on his knees before Wilson on the cot, head inclined down, and he pokes out his tongue to swirl over his cockhead. Wilson’s hips spasm, and then his hands are in Lee’s hair, tugging him. 

Lee takes it in. He hollows his cheeks, and lets Wilson drag him closer and deeper, his eyes watering and his breathing guttered. Wilson’s controlling the rhythm -- Lee’s mouth full, then easing off, then full once again -- and he’s never felt anything like this before. His own cock is a hungry pressure against his thighs, untouched yet straining, but he finds himself not caring, because this is about letting Wilson lead. 

When Wilson finally pulls him off, Lee’s mouth is a mess of precome and spittle. Wilson hasn’t come yet, and Lee lets out a murmured noise of confusion, because he _would_ , he’d take it, he’d swallow and choke and let Wilson spurt all over his face. Does Wilson think he can’t? 

Firmly, Wilson says, “Get up here,” and he pats the cot. Lee does, cursing himself for trembling as if he’s one of his own fucking torture victims, and Wilson takes the second to procure something from his cast-off coat on the ground. It’s a bottle of lube, and Lee shakes his head in exasperation. 

“‘Course you’re prepared for this.” 

“I had a feeling you might ambush me sometime,” Wilson says. “We haven’t been being professional. Whatever that means for our work, anyway.” He’s slicking himself up in the stuff, and he settles behind Lee. “Fuck, Lee, you’re driving me mad.” 

“I realise,” Lee says, softly. He knows. “Go on, sweetheart. Please.” 

Wilson rocks against him, tentative. Just a nudge against Lee’s buttocks, and then he _plunges_ , burying himself inside of Lee. And it hurts, and Lee feels himself being stretched and struck, making room for Wilson’s cock. 

It’s a glorious sort of aching, like pressing on bruises, like pinching the bullet wound. Groaning, Wilson presses Lee down, until he’s fully on top of him, and Lee’s rutting against the sheets. 

It is better than holding Wilson’s eye in his hand, admiring the lovely dark pupil of it, even with the sclera an ugly red from the poisons that Lee’s administered. It is better than Wilson’s fear, his whimpering, his begging. Here Wilson is, losing himself inside of Lee in a way that’s beyond everything that Lee’s already done to him. 

Wilson’s cock, swollen and pulsing, spills and spills, and Lee comes a couple seconds later, his painfully hard prick rubbed raw against the sheets emptying in turn. 

They shudder against each other, laying in the wet mess of it all. 

***

It’s a miracle that they don’t tear each other apart. Instead, that’s a destruction reserved for the world. Janus and Deucalion. The dreams that grew around the two-faced god and the sailor who had emerged from the world’s flood. Beginnings, transitions, and survival. 

That’s the magic of myths. You put together disparate elements; you bring in a touch of the inexplicable; you combine and conflate origins and legends. It’s like taking two broken men and wondering if together they could become one complete person.

Mr. Rabbit isn’t a god. He isn’t a well-known folktale. And his name is only a whisper. 

But one day, you’ll hear it. 


End file.
